Chapter 36
I sip my lavender latte, watching Lucrezia sketch on her napkin with expert strokes. The tiny café we discovered last week has become our regular Thursday hangout—tucked between a bookstore and vintage record shop, with mismatched chairs and a barista who remembers our orders.
"You're staring again," Lucrezia says without looking up from her drawing.
"Sorry." I twist my mother's ring, a habit I can't seem to break. "I'm still not used to having friends who aren't trying to use me for something."
Lucrezia sets down her pen, fixing me with those intense eyes of hers. "Melania, we've been over this. I don't feel sorry for you and I'm not using you."
"I know, I know." The words tumble out, and I’m aware I misspoke. "Old habits."
When Lucrezia first invited me for coffee after a Feretti family dinner, I'd been suspicious. The fierce, artistic sister of Damiano Feretti, reaching out to the daughter of the man who'd tried to destroy her family? It had to be either pity or obligation.
"Besides," Lucrezia continues, sliding her napkin sketch toward me, "you're the only one who appreciates my art without trying to psychoanalyze it."
I examine her drawing—a woman's face half-hidden, emerging from what looks like shattered glass. "It's beautiful. Haunting."
"Like us," she says with a small smile. "Broken but still standing."
The barista brings our second round—another lavender latte for me, espresso for Lucrezia. She takes a sip and closes her eyes in appreciation.
"So," she says, setting down her cup, "have you told Alessio about the shelter idea yet?"
I shake my head. "Not the full scope. He knows I want to help trafficking victims but not that I'm planning to fund an entire rehabilitation center."
"Men." Lucrezia rolls her eyes. "They think they're protecting us by keeping us in the dark, then get upset when we do the same."
"It's not that." I outline the rim of my mug. "I just need to have everything perfectly planned before I present it. You know how I am."
"Perfectionist," she teases.
"Strategic," I correct, but I'm smiling.
What I don't say is how much her friendship means to me. How in these past months our Thursday coffee dates have become my sanctuary. Lucrezia understands what it's like to rebuild yourself after trauma, to carve out an identity separate from the men in our lives.
"You know," Lucrezia says, "when we first met I thought you'd be this spoiled princess who'd run screaming back to her mansion within a week."
I laugh, nearly choking on my latte. "And I thought you hated me on principle."
"Never." Her expression softens. "I recognized something in you that first night—that look in your eyes. Like you'd seen too much but were still fighting."
My phone buzzes on the table and I glance down to see Alessio's message: Look up, bella.
I lift my eyes to find him standing in the doorway, sunlight at his back, dressed in a charcoal suit that makes every woman in the café turn to stare. But his dark eyes are fixed only on me.
Instead of coming to our table he approaches the counter, orders, then leans against it with nonchalance. His gaze slides to me, a slow perusal that makes heat bloom across my skin.
I bite my lip, immediately understanding the game.
"Don't look now," I say to Lucrezia, "but there's a man at the counter who won't stop staring."
Lucrezia glances over her shoulder, then back at me with a knowing smirk. "Oh, he's definitely trouble. The dangerous kind."
Alessio takes his coffee and approaches our table with predatory grace. "Excuse me," he says, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual. "I couldn't help noticing you from across the room. Mind if I join you?"
I tilt my head, playing along. "That depends. Do you make a habit of approaching strangers in cafés?"
"Only when they're as beautiful as you." His thumb strokes his bottom lip—a gesture I know means he's enjoying himself. "I'm Alessio."
"Melania," I offer, extending my hand.
Instead of shaking it he brings it to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. "A pleasure."
"I'm Lucrezia," Lucrezia interjects with theatrical exasperation. "The suddenly invisible friend."
Alessio grins at her, pulling out a chair. "My apologies. I was momentarily blinded."
"You two are adorable," Lucrezia says, gathering her sketches. "Like teenagers flirting at prom."
Alessio's expression shifts to mock horror. "Don't tell your brothers that. I have a reputation to maintain."
"What reputation?" Lucrezia snorts. "That you're some terrifying enforcer? Please. I've seen how you look at her when you think no one's watching."
"And how's that?" he challenges, though his hand finds mine under the table.
Lucrezia stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Like she hung the moon and stars just for you." She smirks at his discomfort. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. For now. Unless you annoy me, of course."
I nod, squeezing Alessio's hand as Lucrezia leaves us alone for our pretend first meeting and very real desire.
I study Alessio's face. Though he's smiling, there's tension around his eyes that wasn't there moments ago. My stomach tightens with familiar dread.
"What is it?" I ask. "You have that look."
"I have news."
"About Raymond." Only one person raises that particular black shadow in Alessio's eyes.
I watch Melania's face fall when she registers Raymond's name. Even after two months, just the mention of him makes her fingers itch to twist that ring—her mother's—the way she does when she's anxious.
"About Raymond," I confirm, running my thumb across her knuckles.
My mind drifts back to that night in Damiano's office. Leonardo standing there with the USB drive that changed everything.
"We need to bury this bastard," Leonardo had said, his voice glacial. "Not just kill him. Destroy him."
We worked through the night, selecting the most damning evidence. By dawn Noah's team had created encrypted packages for every major news outlet, law enforcement agency, and human rights organization across three continents.
Raymond Stone was having breakfast when they came for him. The security footage leaked later showed him in his silk robe, coffee cup halfway to his lips, utterly unaware his empire was already crumbling. That image—his complete shock—is one I replay when sleep won't come.
The days that followed were hell for him but heaven for justice. Families appeared on television clutching photographs of missing children and spouses. Hospital records matched blood types to victims. Financial trails connected Raymond to every atrocity.
His political connections couldn't save him. His money couldn't buy silence. The evidence was too overwhelming, too public.
The only choice Raymond had left was which maximum-security prison would house him until his trial. His lawyers negotiated a single concession—a facility where his safety could be ‘guaranteed’. As if men like him deserve safety after what they've done.
I pull myself back to the present, to Melania's questioning eyes.
"Raymond's dead," I say, my voice flat. "They found him this morning."
Her fingers tighten around mine but her face doesn't register shock—just a quiet acceptance. She's been expecting this.
"How?" she asks.
"Officially? Suicide." I meet her eyes directly. "Unofficially? The other inmates. They have their own justice system inside those walls. Men who hurt children..." I don't finish the sentence. I don't need to.
She nods once, her gaze drifting to the window. "Was it quick?"
"No." The word hangs between us. "He suffered, piccola . For the two months he was in there, he suffered daily. The guards found him in his cell this morning. The condition of his body..." I shake my head. "Let's just say they're having trouble determining exactly what killed him first."
Melania takes a sip of her coffee, her hand steady. "I thought I'd feel something more," she says after a moment. "Relief maybe. Or satisfaction."
"And what do you feel?"
"Nothing." She looks back at me. "Just... nothing. Like closing a book I never wanted to read in the first place."
I understand completely. The bastard's death doesn't undo what he did to those families, those children. It doesn't erase the nightmares Melania still has. It's just an ending, not a healing.
"I wanted you to hear it from me," I say. "It'll be on the news tonight."
She nods again, then surprises me by leaning forward and pressing her lips to mine—a brief, gentle kiss that feels like gratitude.
"Take me home," she whispers against my mouth.
I lead Melania out of the café, my hand at the small of her back. The way she leans into my touch tells me everything I need to know about what she needs right now. Not words, not platitudes—just me.
The drive home is quiet. She stares out the window, still twisting that ring, but there's something different in her silence. Not grief or shock, but a lifting of a weight. Raymond's death means she never has to look over her shoulder again.
When we step into our apartment she drops her purse on the console and turns to me with fire in her eyes. Before I can speak, she's on me—hands in my hair, mouth desperate against mine.
I back her against the wall, my body caging hers. "What's this about?" I murmur against her throat.
"I don't want to think," she says, fingers already working my belt. "Make me forget everything but your name."
I don't need to be asked twice. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to our bedroom. What follows is primal—her nails scoring my back, my hands pinning her wrists, both of us moving like we're fighting and surrendering at the same time.
After, she lies sprawled across my chest, both of us breathing hard. Her skin glows with a thin sheen of sweat, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. I've never seen anything more beautiful.
" Cazzo ," I mutter, running my fingers down her spine. "If upsetting you makes you into a sex machine like that, I might need to use that knowledge more often. Make you a little angry every day."
She raises her head, eyebrows arched. "You wouldn't dare."
I give her a slow, wicked smile. "Maybe I'll start leaving the toilet seat up. Or putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge."
Her laugh is bright and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through clouds. She smacks my chest playfully. "You're terrible."
"Terribly good at making you come," I counter, enjoying the blush that spreads across her cheeks. Even after everything we've done together I can still make her blush.